Nick Prescott’s thick arms grip the pole as he drives into Eric Nero, who stands with his back to the water, his bald head glistening under the sun while the pool’s edge frames his spread legs. The rocks and trees behind them mark the only boundary, their bodies locked in the slow, relentless thrusts that make the pole creak. Eric’s knuckles whiten where he braces himself, his hairy chest rising with each breath as Prescott’s weight presses him deeper into the moment. The water ripples only when he pulls back, leaving the rest to the steady, unbroken rhythm of flesh against pole.
